


The Sum of Our Mistakes

by evelynegrey, fortunefavorsthebrave



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelynegrey/pseuds/evelynegrey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunefavorsthebrave/pseuds/fortunefavorsthebrave
Summary: He's spent his entire life looking up to Victor, wanting to catch up to him, only to suffer his biggest defeat yet while finally skating in the same championship as him. How is he supposed to come to terms with meeting his hero and managing to show himself at his most vulnerable in every way, only to have no memory of it afterwards? How is he supposed to admit that Victor and skating, as irrevocably entwined as they are to Yuuri, have somehow been entirely ruined for him after a lifetime of living for nothing else?In which Yuuri wakes up after the banquet to realise he's not alone in his bed, and it's mostly downhill from there.





	The Sum of Our Mistakes

He wakes from strange dreams, clammy and confused, heart racing, and reaches automatically for his glasses, but the bedside table is empty. As he sits up awkwardly, the sheets feel oddly stiff and dry against his bare legs, the mattress uncomfortably unyielding. The room is semi-dark, heavy drapes covering the windows and letting through only a small amount of daylight. It's just enough to give shape to the impersonal furniture, whitewashed walls, and the person lying next to him on the bed. Even without his glasses, Yuuri recognises the tufts of silvery hair fanning over the pillow, the pale skin and well-defined muscles, a sharp hipbone jutting out just above the covers.

 _Victor_ , he thinks, and a moment later finds it extremely difficult to breathe. He doesn't remember anything.

Yuuri spends a few minutes motionless, half certain that if he moves even an inch, Victor will wake up, and he isn't ready to deal with that. But in the end, it doesn't matter what he does, because Victor stirs on his own, barely lifting his head from the pillow as he turns, eyes heavy and shadowed underneath as he blinks over at Yuuri. There's still silence; Yuuri hasn't even considered what they might say to each other. He fumbles, mouth opening but coming up empty, and his already thundering heart trips when the man just smiles, stretching his arms over his head and reaching for something that's too far beyond Yuuri's stunted vision to identify as anything other than a vague outline.

It's a bottle of water, and a blister pack of paracetamol. Victor presses them into Yuuri's hand with a careful gentleness, and he drinks half the bottle in one motion, mostly to avoid having to look at Victor again, to not have to think of anything but the lukewarm liquid clearing his head slightly.

"Have ... have you seen my glasses?" he asks timidly, feeling increasingly vulnerable as Victor remains silent beside him. He can see him looking around before slipping out of bed soundlessly, the covers falling aside to reveal his naked body as he crouches to pick something up from the floor. Yuuri averts his eyes, focusing on breathing right as Victor hands him his glasses and a pile of what must be his clothes.

"Are you alright?" Victor asks him, as Yuuri lowers his head to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tight to keep the panic under control. "Yuuri?"

Victor's warm hand is on his back, as if trying to comfort, and Yuuri envisions an anchor, holding him in place as his nerves threaten to unravel.

"Fine," he mumbles, as a fractured memory flashes through his mind: lips touching, fingers in his hair, and his own muffled laughter against Victor's lips. His first kiss, he thinks, reduced to a hazy fragment of recollection, shapeless and broken.

Victor hums, clearly not completely believing Yuuri's attempt at convincing him. He doesn't speak more, and Yuuri doesn't try to start conversation. He can't tell if the silence is actually uncomfortable, or if he's just projecting his feelings to the room. Maybe Victor's fine, maybe he's more or less completely happy where he is. Regardless, he stays close, a hand on Yuuri's back rubbing at spaced intervals as if his mind is elsewhere and he's forgetting to keep the repetitive motion going.

It's the sound of somebody in the corridor outside, a door closing and low voices he can't identify, that break whatever spiral of despair Yuuri was falling into. He doesn't want to be in this situation, but it's his own room, so he can't exactly leave. Besides, that would mean getting dressed in front of Victor, a concept that is far more mortifying in the half morning light that the opposite act seemed to have been last night. Victor must feel Yuuri flinch at the sound, and responds with a soft sigh, reaching over the side of the bed again to retrieve his own clothes.

This time, Yuuri does look as he gets out of bed, back turned, and starts to get dressed unhurriedly, running a hand through his messy hair, producing a pair of sunglasses from some pocket and putting them on. Yuuri understands that he doesn't want to be recognised.

"Did you mean what you said last night?" Victor asks him suddenly, jacket over his arm, ready to leave. Yuuri rakes his mind quickly but comes up blank so he has no choice but to ask for clarification. "You asked me to be your coach," Victor says, softly, looking at Yuuri over the top of his sunglasses.

"Oh," Yuuri breathes, a soft sound of shame escaping his throat. "I think ... maybe I'll take a break for the rest of the season."

Victor's eyes narrow, almost disapprovingly, before he says, in his tilted Russian accent, "Pity. I might have considered it." Yuuri blinks at him. "Anyway, I've got to catch my plane. Call me." And then he's gone, from one second to the next, leaving Yuuri to wonder if it really was him, if they really did spend the night together, and if Victor really had taken his drunken request seriously.

It's not until far later, when Yuuri finally forces himself to move towards his bathroom for a shower because he can't see anyone while he's still paranoid about the lingering breaths on his skin, that he gets solid confirmation that it was real, and that everything he fears he's done must have happened.

The hot water is already running, filling the minimalist bathroom with steam that's fogging up his glasses, and Yuuri is in the middle of stepping into the bath and behind the curtain when he notices the marking along his inner thigh. It's a phone number, written in silver sharpie, catching the light as Yuuri feels his legs go weak. He doesn't make it into the bath, but rather sits heavily on the edge, blushing to think of Victor there, confidently writing his personal mobile number and finishing it off with a nearly perfect heart shape.

What had inspired that idea, he wonders, closing his eyes in an attempt to remember. How had it all even started?

The memories he's trying to reach don't come to him, but he remembers other things: the banquet – how Celestino had forced him to go even if he'd tried to refuse; downing champagne in an attempt to take the edge off; Victor, elegant and beautiful in a dark tailored suit, his eyes sparkling as he engaged in conversation across the room.

He remembers a surge of confidence, and a determination to speak to him after years of being stuck in his orbit but never getting close enough to reach out. But then, not much. Either he finally tipped his alcohol levels, or he's blacked it out to save himself. The more he tries to think, the more nauseous he feels, and even the soft lighting is harsh on his eyes. There's a hangover approaching fast, and his thoughts are stuck like a scratched record as, slowly, he recalls dancing. Terrible, intimate dancing. Stepping on shoes. Did he take his shirt off?

Before he can change his mind, he goes to find his phone, saving Victor's number quickly and tossing the mobile on the bed, out of his reach, as he goes back to the bathroom and finally sinks into the tub. A cold shower might have been better, but there's something comforting about the punishing heat, sweating out the toxins and burning away the traces of Victor's smell on his skin. There's nothing he can do about the bite marks on his chest and neck though, or the scratches on his shoulder blade. He doesn't remember how they got there, but he gets a quick flashback of Victor's long legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him impossibly close while whispering something unintelligible, possibly Russian, in his ear.

The hot water masks the blush creeping over his body at the memory, and he's sure that in any other context he might find the realisations arousing if not for the anxiety tinting everything.

Yuuri gets through the morning in a haze, limbs heavy but mind racing as he packs his suitcase and goes down to meet Celestino before he comes to retrieve Yuuri himself. There's no signs of what happened in the room, but he's still paranoid that there might be some sort of clue, and he's never felt more relieved to go home after a championship.

He tells his coach on the plane back to Detroit that he doesn't think there's any point in finishing the season.

"You don't even want to compete in the Nationals?" Celestino asks, and Yuuri shakes his head firmly.

"I just want to finish my degree," he lies, and Celestino lets the subject drop after that. Perhaps he agrees, thinks Yuuri heavily. Perhaps he knows a lost cause when he sees one.

***

Phichit is devastated to hear the news, but he's also seen Yuuri at enough stages of breakdown about his career path that he can tell this isn't one that will pass with a few days of rest. So, he doesn't push the topic either, and for all that Yuuri appreciates it, he can't help but feel slightly irritated that nobody is trying to stop him. Sometimes he thinks that the only reason he took up figure skating in the first place is because he's not really good at anything else. At other times, such as this, he thinks he's not even very good at that. If he was, surely someone would let him know.

It takes a 3am YouTube spiral of compilations of his worst falls to convince himself that retiring is the best thing he can do for his own mental health. A few days later, news breaks of his decision, and there's really no going back from that.

He re-enrols at his old college and decides not to think about his future at all until he's finished his stupid degree that won't really get him anywhere but will at least make his parents proud. They never understood skating anyway, he thinks bitterly, checking his phone idly as he's waiting for Phichit to finish training. He hasn't been back on the ice since the Grand Prix Final, and he knows it's just a matter of time before Phichit forces him, but for now he's grateful to be allowed to just wait outside.

There's a twitter notification demanding his attention, and it's only with an immense effort that he manages to keep a straight face when he realises it's from Victor Nikiforov. A private message, apparently not meant for anyone else's eyes. "So you're serious about retiring?"

He stares at it for several seconds, then realises that now he's read it, there will be a blue tick to show he's seen it, and that means Victor knows, and he has to answer. It's absurd that he can hear the words, rising and falling in Victor's intonation, and he can see him standing by the door to his hotel room, clothes rumpled and hair sticking up as he watches Yuuri with something like expectation in his eyes. The answer would be that of course he was serious, he has to be now, he's already told people and taken up his degree again. He's backed himself into a corner in which he's not completely sure he's comfortable, but he can't think what else to do.

Not that he writes any of that. Instead, he panics, deletes the message, and goes to Victor's page to block his account. It all happens in less than half a minute.

"Yuuri!" a voice calls suddenly from nearby, and Yuuri must look as guilty as he feels because Phichit approaches him with clear concern on his face, trunk slung over his back haphazardly. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," Yuuri says quickly, never having been the best at thinking on his feet, but he can't tell Phichit about what happened after the banquet. Even after more than a week of trying to process it, he can't fully explain it to himself.

He's spent his entire life looking up to Victor, wanting to catch up to him, only to suffer his biggest defeat yet while finally skating in the same championship as him. How is he supposed to come to terms with meeting his hero and managing to show himself at his most vulnerable in every way, only to have no memory of it afterwards? How is he supposed to admit that Victor and skating, as irrevocably entwined as they are to Yuuri, have somehow been entirely ruined for him after a lifetime of living for nothing else?

The message sticks in his head, coming back around at inopportune moments, mostly right before bedtime or any moment he's alone for longer than a few minutes. He can picture Victor, probably in some lavish classy apartment in St. Petersburg, checking back and frowning at Yuuri's hidden account. Sometimes, his frown seems angry, but the worst times are when he looks sad in Yuuri's head, and he feels guilt threaten to overwhelm him.

He doesn't want to start the conversation again, or even acknowledge that it happened, but he owes Victor more than that. So he texts him, instead, still half in disbelief that he actually has his number. It might not even work, it might be a fake number, or a prank that will send whatever he texts to somebody else's phone to humiliate him, but somehow he doesn't think so. At least, he doesn't want to.

"It's an indefinite break," he writes, and sends it before he can stop himself. He doesn't sign off, in case it does go to the wrong person, and proceeds to lie down on his small bed in his even smaller bedroom. There are text books spread all over his desk and floor that he hasn't given more than a cursory glance when he first bought them, and the walls are conspicuously bare after he'd torn down all his posters a few days previously.

His phone lights up within minutes, and after doing the math, Yuuri realises it must be the middle of the night over in Russia. There's a temptation to just turn his phone over and completely ignore it because he didn't plan this far ahead, but he can't be scared of his phone, he chides himself, before reluctantly looking at the screen.

"That's a shame," Victor has replied, if it really is him, and it must be, but Yuuri's still struggling to believe it. "I was looking forward to seeing you at the Worlds."

He stares at the message for a long moment, trying to figure out whether he should take it seriously. They don't know each other. Yuuri has only ever been in the periphery of Victor's world, and he doubts he even knew who he was before the Grand Prix Final. Victor must have been drunk too at the banquet. It must have been pure chance that they ended up in the same hotel room after. Yuuri can't imagine it being easy for Victor to find potential bed partners, and Yuuri probably made his intentions very clear from the start in his drunken, star struck condition.

It hits him then that Victor has never disclosed a single detail about his love life to the press, and it suddenly makes sense why he wouldn't. Maybe Yuuri is one of the few people who knows something about it, even if it's only in part.

He sits up, fishing from the depth of his waste bin a crinkled poster of Victor in black and white, looking more like a rock star than a figure skater. He looks at it, and remembers what it had felt like.

Yuuri had always known, ever since Victor came into his life, what he was, and that it wasn't going to change. He doesn't talk about it, because there's nothing to tell, but it's one of the few things about himself that he always just accepted, because denying it would be to deny what Victor had come to mean to him, and ultimately, what skating meant to him. To think he actually had the experience he'd always fantasised about, but can now barely remember. Perhaps that's what he hates most about this entire thing. That like so many other things in his life, he had the chance, but he blew it. All of it.

"I doubt I would have made it to the Worlds anyway," he types out, which is true. Victor deserves at least knowing that, even if they had parted on terms that were less of Yuuri having a meltdown and more smiles and conversation, they would probably not have crossed paths for a long time anyway.

Again, no sooner has Yuuri sent the message than the grey ellipsis pops up to show Victor replying. Yuuri imagines him half asleep, lying in his bed and looking similar to how he had that morning, squinting at the light in a dark room as he types.

"You would have if I were your coach."

With a soft sigh, Yuuri drops the phone to his chest and stares up at the ceiling. He knows Victor is just teasing him now, and it stings a little that he would bring it up again, embarrassing as it had been the first time. Besides, there's no way Victor would give up his brilliant career to become a coach, and Yuuri has no intentions of becoming a charity case.

He can't think of a good response, so he never replies, and the conversation doesn't bring any sort of closure like he had hoped it would. Victor doesn't text him again, but Yuuri does get around to unblocking him impulsively one afternoon between classes.

***

Despite not talking, Yuuri still keeps up with Victor's social media accounts, searches his name semi-frequently for new interviews, and keeps up with the skating world websites to check that his friendly rivals are all doing okay. Victor, for his part, unceremoniously “likes” a few of Yuuri's Instagram posts, though one is far enough back in his feed that Yuuri feels strangely stalked by the man he's done the same thing to all his life. It's not a friendship, but it's no longer ignoring that they were ever near each other, and he thinks that he can live with that. Or rather, he has to.

In January, Yuuri and Phichit watch the European Championships together in their living room – Phichit somewhat longingly and Yuuri with reluctance.

"You met Victor at the Grand Prix Final, didn't you?" Phichit comments suddenly, as Yuuri busies himself with rearranging the bowls of snacks on the coffee table rather than watching the screen. "How come you never told me about it?"

"We didn't talk much," Yuuri answers weakly, because as far as he remembers, that's not untrue. He still gets flashes of intertwined limbs, sounds that are more suited to adult content websites than his own memory, but he has very little recollection of the banquet itself, or the events leading up to his hotel room. "He's very charming,” he adds lamely.

"I bet," Phichit sighs, but whatever else he wanted to say is drowned out by the music Victor is moving to. It still doesn't quite match up, the knowledge that this is the same man that willingly spent the night with him, and actually stayed rather than leaving while Yuuri was asleep. He's thankful for that, because his nerves would never have settled without any idea who he'd been with.

He watches Victor skate a near perfect programme that is almost certainly going to put him in the lead, and he wonders if he's nervous at all, if he had been with Yuuri, if he thinks about it sometimes, even for a second. He wonders if he himself had been nervous, if he had let the fact that it had been on his mind for years show through, or worse, if he actually told Victor about that.

The kiss and cry is almost overrun with flowers, soft toys of Makkachin, and plush heart pillows. Victor sits surrounded by it all, and he looks happy. For a moment, he looks directly into the camera, and his smile seems to almost falter, but it could just as easily be tiredness. He did, after all, execute several difficult jumps in the second half and they must have taken their toll. Yakov seems to be already chastising him, but he's smiling while he does it. Then again, everything in Russian sounds harsh to Yuuri, except the words whispered that night, so perhaps he's actually saying good things.

"Do you really not miss it?" Phichit asks, knees to his chest and arms wrapped loose around his shins as Victor's score comes up on screen, bumping him up to first place.

"I don't know," Yuuri admits, because what he feels doesn't seem to be anything he would be able to put into words. "But I guess that's the problem."  
  
He sends Victor a text that night, in a moment of weakness, and puts his phone away before it can light up with a reply. When he wakes up, there's a one word reply to his simple "davai". "Arigato," it says.

***

Phichit competes in the Four Continents Championships in February and places fifth with a personal best and an amazing support from the audience. Yuuri watches it from home as he's too busy with course work to fly out and see it in person. At least, that's what he tells himself and Phichit. In truth, he's wary of returning to the scene, even just as a spectator. There will be people there against whom he's competed in the past, and he isn't sure how to talk to them now they've lost their only real shared interest. More, he can't face the pity he predicts from them as they make small talk about what he's doing with his life now. It's true that skaters sometimes retire before they absolutely have to, and continue to perform out of competitions, but his was nothing more than running away, with an injury far deeper than anything physical.

He tries to beg away from attending the Worlds with Phichit, once again citing coursework, but Phichit surprises him on the morning of the flight by waking him with a packed suitcase, his workbooks shared between their belongings.

"I need you there with me," he declares, and Yuuri's already run out of excuses. It's a short flight to Boston, and he can't let Phichit down when he knows exactly how important it is to him.

They get on a plane with Celestino, who mercifully doesn't badger Yuuri about his break, and it's a pleasant journey, enough so that Yuuri starts to feel marginally excited about the whole thing. He doesn't have to talk to any of the skaters, he thinks. He doesn't have to get involved other than as a spectator, taking in the show from a distance without the anxiety or pressure of being in it. He'll be able to enjoy watching his peers perform without quietly hoping they fall at least once so he stands a chance at reaching the podium.

They've booked a room together, but Yuuri takes some pleasure in making his way to the stands with everybody else, seeing an abundance of Russian flags that spike anxiety in his chest, but also a fair few Thai ones that make him smile. Nobody recognises him, leaving him relieved but also partially disappointed. Taking a seat far from the area reserved for friends and family, just to be on the safe side, he pulls out a course book as the first group comes out on the ice for warm up. He'd planned on getting some work done while the lesser known skaters get their turn, but his studies are soon forgotten as he gets swept up in the atmosphere of the crowd, welcoming and excited from the very start.

It passes in a blur, and suddenly the warm up for Phichit's group begins. Yuuri watches his friend take easy laps, looking up at him for just a moment with a smile before moving on. Yuuri lets his eyes wander, seeing his former friends and imagining what it could have been like if he hadn't taken a break. He's been in the rink so many times that he can put himself there now, imagine the growing nerves, and his body is still tense now, just thinking back.

Phichit does well. Far better than Yuuri had expected, in fact, and he feels a stab of jealousy pierce the bubble of pride, because Phichit's confidence is something Yuuri has never been able to mimic, and it's always been his downfall. Phichit looks so happy, verging on tears as he gets his score, almost certainly placing him in the top group for the free skate. Yuuri rises from his seat, making his way around the back in order to congratulate his friend and avoid watching Victor's performance. Phichit is going to want to see it, but at least Yuuri won't have to see it alone. He doesn't even know why it's so difficult, only that there's a tightness squeezing around his chest at the mere thought.

Phichit meets him at the backstage door, eyes bright and breathing still laboured, and they take a seat on one of the plush armchairs to the side, watching performances on the screens until, finally, it's time for Victor's short programme. It's dizzying, having all the nostalgia of the space but being separated from the release of tension, and it sits heavy in his chest as they make their way to the isolated viewing stand. Yuuri snags two seats in the middle before Phichit can insist on the front row, wanting to avoid recognition for as long as possible.

Victor is just getting into position as they settle, arms raised and body poised.

The music starts, and Yuuri suddenly feels twelve years old again, spellbound and childishly in awe. Victor is known for his high-difficulty jumps, exquisite presentation, and for his ability to surprise his audience, but for Yuuri, it was always about the way Victor made him feel like the performance was all for him. Like the stories Victor told with his body were meant for Yuuri alone, to keep and to cherish, and to retell in his own way if he wished to. This time is no different, and the story Victor is telling now seems strangely sad, like he's reaching for something beyond everything that is already his. Something he, perhaps, knows he can never have.

Yuuri forgets that he wanted to stay back, forgets that he's watching with Phichit, and gets lost in cheering and yelling, halfway off his seat with anticipation every time Victor jumps. He moves like there's no effort in it, like the actions are coded into his very being, and Yuuri has never missed the ice so much.

"Yuuri?" Phichit's voice comes over the thunderous applause following the end of Victor's performance. "Yuuri, are you okay?"

"What?" Yuuri says absently, still watching Victor as he gives his bows. "Yeah, fine." But he realises a moment later that there are tears running down his cheeks, and Phichit's wrapping his arms around him tightly as if he needs the comfort. As if he's a little bit broken, somehow.

Victor leaves the ice with a flourish, embracing Yakov and laughing as he waves a hand to intercept his accusing finger. They're closer now, not too far from the viewing platform, but Yuuri knows he won't look up, because he's in his own world, running on endorphins and eager to sit down to wait for his scores.

"I want to leave," Yuuri says earnestly, and Phichit thankfully doesn't ask any questions.

They manage to make their way out after letting Celestino know and collecting Phichit's things, and Yuuri takes deep breaths of cool evening air as they finally leave the overcrowded arena. The hotel isn't far away, but Phichit suggests that they take a walk before heading back, and Yuuri's too drained to argue.

"What's going on with you?" Phichit asks gently after a few minutes of silence, in which Yuuri's only waiting for his friend to start the conversation he's been dreading for months.

"Nothing," Yuuri says quietly, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold. "I'm just trying to move on."

"From what?" Phichit presses, but his voice is still soft, unwilling to provoke. "You love skating. I don't understand what happened."

"The Grand Prix Final happened," Yuuri says tiredly. "I messed up."

"Everyone messes up," Phichit tries, and they've had this talk every possible way throughout their friendship. Yuuri has messed up more times than he cares to count. Victor doesn't. He might stumble, or miss a rotation, but he's never dropped to the lows that Yuuri has experienced. Even Phichit, despite never having advanced very far until now, always seemed content just to be competing at all, which isn't something Yuuri can emulate even after years of trying to feel his carefree enthusiasm.

"It's not the same," Yuuri manages, because he can't bare all, not now, and especially not with Victor so uncomfortably close. Just knowing they might be sharing a hotel gives him chills that are very different to how the knowledge used to make him feel.

"I just want you to be happy," Phichit says, and it takes effort not to break entirely at those words.

"I'm working on it," Yuuri promises weakly, and he thinks Phichit understands, at least for now, that it might take some time.

***

The free skate is scheduled for the following day.

Yuuri is settled in more or less the same spot as before, feeling a new layer of déjà vu over the sort he felt yesterday now that he's once again just a spectator in a crowd. The warm up begins as ever, but Phichit seems nervous, falling on his first jump and stumbling on some of his more familiar steps some time after. Yuuri's heart aches for him, relating strongly to the doubt that's likely starting to creep through his thoughts. Yuuri is so focused on his friend that he barely pays attention to the others, and only spares Victor a glance when he happens to move between Yuuri's line of sight to Phichit.

After the warm ups, as Georgi Popovich steps back onto the ice, Yuuri's phone rings out, with a distressed Phichit on the other end.

"I don't know if I can do this," he says in a shrill voice that's entirely foreign to Yuuri's ears.

"Of course you can," he tries to soothe him while simultaneously trying to squeeze through the row of seats without evoking the wrath of one of the spectators. "I'll be there in a minute, okay? Just hold on a sec."

He pushes a door open and runs through corridors to get to the warm up area allocated for the skaters. Getting stopped by security, he has to show the VIP ticket Phichit had secured for him, and is finally let through just as the music starts up in the background, signalling the start of Georgi's programme. Celestino is there, but Phichit reaches for Yuuri, mumbling incoherently in his ear as Yuuri holds him steadily, waiting for a moment to talk him down.

"Listen to me," he says, shutting out the voices around them to focus entirely on his friend. "You can't do worse than I did, okay?" Phichit gives a small chuckle in spite of himself. "Everyone messes up, remember? But I don't think that's today."

Phichit nods, and his hands are still shaking so Yuuri takes them in his own, and turns them a little so Phichit can't see the crowd. "You're just going to go out there and have fun, like you always do. They already love you. Even if you end up last you still made it to the Worlds, which is more than I've ever done."

Phichit nods again, the action so repetitive that Yuuri suspects he's just on autopilot now. "Thank you, Yuuri," he mumbles, "thanks for coming over for me."

"It's no trouble," Yuuri promises, squeezing his arm gently.

He smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging fashion, and looks up, catching sight of something red, a jacket with gold embellishments, and then bright blue eyes, staring into his.

Victor looks caught, his attention fixed on Yuuri as they continue to look at each other, and then he takes a step forwards. Phichit seems to catch on suddenly, gently pushing Yuuri in Victor's direction and leaving him no choice but to go.

"Yuuri," Victor says simply, as they end up facing each other properly for the first time in months. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I'm here with a friend," Yuuri explains dazedly, his arms hanging limp along his sides, heart beating out a strange rhythm in his chest. "Phichit Chulanont."

He hears Phichit weakly say hello behind him, but he can't turn around. Victor nods in his direction, but doesn't move his eyes away from Yuuri. It's like they're locked in a stalemate, a discussion deserving of a much more discreet setting than being surrounded by their peers and a lot of cameras. This is why Yuuri has been keeping his distance.

"Have you changed your mind?" Victor asks, and Yuuri feels like there's a spotlight, heating up his skin and capturing him. Victor is intense, even more so as he takes another step closer. Later, Yuuri knows he will regret not fully appreciating being so close to him, having the opportunity to take in his intricate uniform first hand.

"No," he says, unable to trust himself to say any more than that right now. They must have been standing just like this, he thinks wildly. Either before they went upstairs or just after they got through the doors. Yuuri can't decide if he wants to remember any more, not when Victor's presence is so overwhelming without the support of alcohol to numb his senses.

There's a pregnant pause in which Yuuri can hear distant clapping and cheering, the closer chatter between skaters and coaches, and his own heartbeat. Then Victor ducks his head suddenly, letting out a small huff as his mouth curves into an almost imperceptible smile. When he looks up, he opens his mouth as if to speak, but it's cut short by a sudden invasion of his personal space, the quiet whisper in his ear.

Christophe Giacometti is as intimidating in person as he is on screen. His long lashes are almost brushing Victor's cheek as he continues to murmur, hand resting lightly on Victor's hip. Yuuri takes a step back instinctively, seemingly catching Chris' attention with the movement. Chris smiles at him, but it's without much recognition, and his hand doesn't drop for several seconds, like he's forgotten it's there. Like he's this close a lot.

Victor shifts, not exactly away from him, and opens his mouth to speak again, but Yuuri steps back further.

"I should get back to my seat," he excuses himself, adding, "Nice to see you, Victor," before turning and heading straight for the door. Phichit catches up with him in the corridor outside.

"What was that all about?" he asks breathlessly, seemingly distracted from his own troubles in the face of Yuuri's undoubtedly glum expression.

"Victor and Chris," he says in a hollow voice. "Did you know anything about that?"

"What?" says Phichit at the same time as someone else says, "Everybody knows about that."

They both turn their heads in unison, seeing Jean-Jacques Leroy approach them from the other end of the corridor, smug smile in place. "But it makes sense, I suppose," he goes on, "since neither of them have a life outside the rink. What are you doing here anyway, Katsuki? Making a comeback?"

"No," Yuuri replies tersely, "I was just leaving."

"Wish me luck," JJ grins as he disappears into the other room, leaving a long silence in which Yuuri stares at his feet and Phichit clears his throat.

"I had no idea," he says at last, forcing Yuuri to meet his gaze.

"It's fine," Yuuri tells him, because it wouldn't make sense for him to say anything else. "Good luck. I'm sure you'll do great." He gives Phichit a quick squeeze before walking out, avoiding the stands all together and leaving the building. He'll come up with a valid excuse later, he thinks, as he walks back to the hotel, cold and numb to the world. He'll need to have something ready by the end of the competition, but right now, he just wants to be alone, to turn his phone on silent so he can lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling blankly without disturbance until the distant ache blends into nothing.

Yuuri loses track of time like that, consumed by slow motion replays of Chris with Victor, and JJ's knowing smirk as he walked past. Did everybody know? Had it already been happening at the banquet? At some point, these exhausted circling thoughts merge into dreams, thankfully giving him a break from the constant stream of “what if” scenarios.

He's woken by the harsh sound of a door slamming shut, and Phichit's voice filling the small space at an alarming volume. “Where were you?” he demands, managing to look both angry and worried in equal measures. “You missed the ceremony. You didn't even see my performance, did you?”

Every feeble excuse Yuuri might have had in mind for this moment die on his lips as he watches disappointment and hurt play over his friends’ features. “I'm really sorry,” he says, knowing it isn’t enough. “I just couldn't stay.”

“But why?” Phichit asks unhappily, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don't understand.”

“I slept with Victor,” Yuuri hears himself say, finally, his voice surprisingly even despite the way his pulse speeds at the words. “After the Final last year. The banquet.”

He takes a breath, and when Phichit doesn't interrupt him, continues, “I don't even know how it happened, I'd had so much to drink. I woke up and he was just lying there next to me...” He pauses, struggling with the memory and the images it brings back. Phichit sinks onto his bed like a deflated balloon toy.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees, feeling sweat break out all over his body, skin prickling with shame.

“And then what?”

“And then nothing,” he says, voice hollow. “We texted a few times, and that was it. Seeing him today was really … hard,” he settles on, unsure of how to accurately describe the mixture of trepidation, embarrassment, and the unbelievably vain sense of hope that had filled him facing Victor again. “And you saw what happened. I mean, I wasn't even just a cheap one night stand, or whatever. He was probably cheating on Chris. I just couldn't be there and watch them after that.”

Phichit stays quiet a while longer, looking at Yuuri in a way that isn't quite as it was before, like his admission has changed how he's seen. He knows he's been acting strange lately, and neglecting Phichit in favour of self-obsessive thoughts. Perhaps he's only looking at him like that because now he can look back over the last few months and finally know what caused them.

Phichit sighs, and it seems like he's going to say something, but he just stands up, going over to the coffee maker and filling it with water. This is a conversation that requires tea, and Yuuri suddenly yearns for the familiarity of the warmth between his hands, the safety of routine.

"I wish you'd told me sooner," Phichit murmurs, his back to Yuuri as he fishes out two green tea bags from a tupperware box.

“It's over now anyway,” Yuuri mutters. “It doesn't matter."

"But it does matter," Phichit insists, handing Yuuri his tea and sitting back down on the bed. "He took advantage of you."

Yuuri gives an involuntary laugh at that, completely without mirth, and says, “I'm pretty sure I started it.”

"That's not what I meant.”

And even if Yuuri thinks he knows what's coming next, even if he really should have anticipated the extent to which Phichit's managed to ingratiate himself in his life, it still hits him like a punch in the gut when Phichit says, “I meant because you're in love with him.”

The room falls silent, and Yuuri feels his grip around the mug tighten and start to shake. He's never said it aloud, to anyone, and sometimes he wonders if it's only a poor imitation of what other people feel, the real connections they make with real people in their lives. He wonders if he's even capable of something so selfless, and if what he feels, even now, is worth anything more than the adolescent plummeting of his gut as he dreamt about sweat slicked intimacy and boyish warmth.

“I'm sorry,” Phichit sighs then, as the silence drags on and Yuuri can't find it in himself to deny it. “I shouldn't presume to know how you feel about any of it.”

Yuuri forces his fingers to relax, swirling the contents of his cup around slowly, and feels the splinters of his broken heart start to come lose in his chest, piercing his insides until he's bleeding with grief and disappointment, catching the full blow of his own inadequacy now that it's all been said and done.

He sniffles, wipes away the wetness around his eyes and says, “I'm really sorry I missed your free skate.”

Forcing himself to meet Phichit's eyes, he sees the unbearable pity there that he's dreaded his entire life, but to Phichit's credit, all he says is, "I finished 7th anyway. You didn't miss much."

***

They don't directly talk about it again, once they get back to Detroit, but Yuuri does notices that Phichit doesn't mention their skating rivals so much any more, and that he's more mindful of when to dial down his enthusiasm about his practice sessions.

Yuuri goes back to his studies, distracting himself with research and essays and cramming for exams, carefully knitting himself back together as Victor's presence online diminishes after the end of the skating season. It leaves an emptiness in Yuuri's life that he knows he won't be able to fill, but at least it is empty, and no longer filled with splinters.

By the time he graduates, it's been months since he saw Victor at all, but it feels like a lifetime.

***

Yuuri hadn’t expected it to feel so strange to be back in Hasetsu, to have people recognise him and want to shake his hand as he walks through the airport. His Japanese is rusty, thick and foreign in his mouth when he tries to thank the few fans he has left, and the sight of his parents' bath house brings back so many memories that he has to stop outside for a bit and collect himself before going inside. The strangest thing of all is that Vichan isn't there to greet him.

His old room is musty, untouched, and a perfect installation of himself prior to his last season, prior to the banquet. Yuuri had managed to forget that opening this door would literally reunite him with his past, with the almost claustrophobic phantom feeling of anticipation as he geared up to moving home rinks, pushing his career further. Yuuri pretends his hands aren't shaking with it all as he methodically removes each poster of Victor that's taking up most of the flat surfaces and walls around his room, pointlessly avoiding looking at them directly as if he hasn't memorised each image since he was twelve. When he's finished, the room looks empty and devoid of all personality, much like Yuuri feels.

There's a knock on his door, and Yuuri reluctantly lets his sister enter. She gives the blank walls a quick glance, but doesn't comment on it, for which Yuuri is grateful. Mari was never much of a talker, and Yuuri's always appreciated her silent company, the way she's never tried to drag the words out of him like so many others.

"You back for good then?" she asks casually, remaining in the doorway so as not to intrude.

"I don't know," Yuuri tells her.

"Going to keep skating?"

"Don't think so."

"Okay," she nods, giving no indication of whether she approves or not. Yuuri doesn't think she cares much one way or the other. "Fancy helping me do some cleaning then?"

It feels good to put his efforts into some manual labour for a while, draining and sanitising some of the baths, feeling his skin grow clammy from the steamed environment. His figure isn't what it was, and his muscle mass has weakened, but the ache is familiar and the work almost therapeutic. Whether or not Mari intended to, she's helped him greatly by giving him an excuse to not be alone with his thoughts.

It takes him a week to pluck up the courage to go see his old friend Yuko at the ice rink. They haven't seen each other in five years, and the look of shock on her face when he wanders in after hours is almost comical.

"I can't believe it," she says after giving him a tight squeeze. "Have you come to practice?"

Yuuri hasn't skated since December. He's been afraid of the ice, terrified of reliving those excruciating moments of the Grand Prix Final when everything had fallen apart so quickly. But he's home now, alone in the rink, and his world class professional skates are packed neatly in the bag over his shoulder, begging to be used.

"Yeah," he says, "if it's okay with you."

She asks if he still has the keys to the building, which he does, and grants him permission to use the space whenever he wants to, as was his old arrangement. He considers coming back later, when she's gone, because he doesn't know if he's going to overthink everything and fall flat on his face as soon as he steps out there, and he doesn't want her to see that after his skate history must be known to her. But Yuko has always been so kind, has never mocked his failures, and knowing she's somewhere else but still in the building brings a kind of comfort that he's been lacking. There's no pressure, he doesn't even have to stay on the ice long if he chooses not to. Skating for the sake of it, rather than with an ultimate performance goal, is something he hasn't had the luxury of doing for years.

He doesn't wobble as he finally sets one foot down on the ice, nor does he collapse in panic as he was half expecting. The skates feel a little tight and uncomfortable around the toes, but his knees and ankles hold as he pushes away from the boards, sliding in a big circle around the rink, hands resting on the small of his back. He turns, going backwards for another lap before attempting a very simple, single jump, entering into a careful spin. Tendons and muscles protest wildly as he stretches his leg into a camel position, but the stretch feels good, the strain a reminder of what he's actually capable of. He can feel his confidence growing again, quiet and small in the back of his mind, but encouraging him to try another jump, just to feel his weight as he lands back on the ice and curves his body to accommodate it. Skating has always helped him feel better, eased his mind and helped him sleep after a long session. Yuuri has been on edge for too long, unable to rid himself of his frustrations and anxieties. For the first time in ages, something loosens in his chest, and he feels warmth in his fingertips.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he finally steps off, but it must be fairly late as Yuko is now stood watching him, a faint smile on her face as he limps clumsily to a nearby bench.

"How long has it been?" she asks as Yuuri unlaces his skates arduously, flexing his toes and swallowing a moan.

"Seven months and ten days," Yuuri admits, trying to force his foot into his trainer.

"How did it feel?"

Right now, his first thought is that it's painful, but the good kind that gives you something to ground yourself in, one that he knows will fade away with time. He's aching all over and drained his water bottle a while ago, and needs a shower, but he smiles genuinely and tells her it felt good.

Yuko doesn't know why he stopped. She doesn't ask about his experiences in the championships, but she gets it, she gets why he skates, and is possibly the only person in the world right now that he can skate around without worrying that he's making a fool of himself or will get a question he can't answer about things he still doesn't understand.

Before they both leave, Yuuri makes sure to ask her work hours, so that he can spend more time around her and have some company if he chooses it. It might not be ground-breaking progress, but he's coping, and it'll have to be enough, he thinks, as he limps home in the dark. It will have to do until he can find something better to occupy his time.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, there's a recorded Skype message waiting on his laptop. Seeing it's from Phichit, he clicks it and is greeted by a familiar grin and an even cheerier hello.

"Hi, Yuuri!" he exclaims, waving as if it's a live conversation, and Yuuri has to stifle the urge to foolishly wave back. "I hope Japan is great! I'm so happy to be back in Bangkok!" He babbles on for a bit about Thailand and his family, and then, as if only just remembering, he says, "By the way, have you heard the news about Victor? He's taking a break to be a coach this season."

Yuuri hits the pause button on instinct, his sleepy brain trying to catch up with the way his stomach drops uncomfortably. It doesn't make any sense. JJ said it himself, Victor lived for skating, why was he giving it up to coach somebody else? _Someone that isn't me_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully, and Yuuri pushes the thought away. Even if Victor had been serious about his offer, Yuuri had turned him down. He has no right to be bitter about it.

He continues the video, already frowning in irritation.

"He's coaching this Russian junior, Yuri Plisetsky, because this year is his breakthrough into the Senior div-"

Yuuri pauses again, opening YouTube and finding a recent programme of Plisetsky's. He's certainly got some potential, but he's too rushed, too impatient to really capture any of the easy grace that Victor is known for. Why the hell would Victor throw away his career for him?

Yuuri pushes his chair back from the desk, needing physical distance between this news and himself. Another Yuri, he thinks, jealousy burning hot and ugly in his veins. A better Yuri. One he can shape and change how he likes. Someone young who's talent is still fresh and promising.

He sighs, despising himself for still caring so much when Victor's made it clear that he means nothing, that all of it meant nothing. Pressing play, he listens to the rest of Phichit's message before deleting it and shutting off his laptop. Then, he puts on a track suit and trainers in spite of his sore muscles and aching feet, and goes for a jog, running until all he can feel is exhaustion and the taste of iron in his mouth.

That evening, it takes him hours to get to sleep, emotions battling out and heart pounding while it tries to recover from the sudden day of working out. Primarily, he feels anger, but it's laced with all manner of other things he doesn't want to have to deal with. Coming home to Japan was supposed to be an escape, but it seems he can't ever really get away.

He falls asleep to the memory of Victor saying his name, but a sharp eyed blonde boy answers each time before Yuuri has the chance.

Phichit calls him a few days later, and Yuuri reluctantly admits that he's skating again. When Victor is mentioned, he shrugs and feigns disinterest, making Phichit change subjects by asking about his training. It's nice to talk to him again, but Yuuri can't help but feel a certain sense of pressure even if he knows Phichit doesn't intend to cause it. It's just that Phichit's love for his job is so transparent, and Yuuri envies him for it.

***

Over the weeks, he falls into a routine of sorts. He gets up early to go for a jog, and then spends the day helping his family run the hot springs, a job he's been trained in since childhood. In the evenings, he sneaks into the ice rink and skates until he's too tired to continue. Sometimes he goes to the gym and sometimes for a swim. He visits Minako at the dance studio and practices ballet, slowly building up his body again from the ground, shedding the weight and regaining his flexibility. He doesn't know why he does it, only that it helps to have a focus, and an outlet for his frustrations.

In September, Phichit calls again with news.

"Did you see that the placements have come in?" Phichit asks, as if he isn't the sole source of all skating world information that Yuuri receives these days. The Grand Prix assignments had arrived within the hour, and Yuuri takes a moment to appreciate that Phichit called him so quickly to talk about it. He can emphatically recall his excitement, building nerves as he looks up who he's going to be against, anticipation to either visit cities he knows through championships, or to explore new places with friends.

Phichit is competing in the Rostelecom Cup, and then at NHK, a decent space between them allowing him to recover from any struggles and adapt his programmes.

"You have to come with me," Phichit insists, and his eyes are shining, his body nearly shaking with what is probably more enthusiasm than nerves, at this point. "I can't imagine being there without you."

"Is Victor going to be there? At Rostelecom?"

"Yeah, Plitsetsky is-"

"Then no," Yuuri says without remorse, rubbing his eyes tiredly behind his glasses.

"But, Yuuri ..." Phichit pleads. "I thought ... what with you skating again ... and didn't you say you were over it?"

He had said that, not a week ago, in text.

"I am," Yuuri insists, "but that doesn't mean-"

"You don't have to see him," Phichit interrupts. "He's not a competitor anymore. I'll buy you a ticket. Come on ..."

He still wants to say no. He wants to say it with everything in his body, because even being in the same arena as Victor is just asking to run into him again, but Phichit is blinking at him and making a sad face, and Yuuri knows he can't really deny his best friend some support at a difficult championship event.

"Fine," he sighs, shoulders slumping while Phichit's rise up and he smiles widely, "but I'm just coming in to see your performance, and I won't come backstage."

"Of course," Phichit agrees happily. "And Christophe won't be there either."

"I don't care about Christophe," Yuuri says through gritted teeth, and Phichit knows better than to argue. They hang up shortly after, and Yuuri sits at his desk for a long time, doing absolutely nothing while his thoughts run away from him. He imagines all the ways in which things could go wrong, and all the ways in which he might run into Victor, or Yuri Plisetsky, or someone else he doesn't want to see. But he misses Phichit, and he misses the world outside little Hasetsu. Sometimes he even misses America, though he never really fitted in there. Sometimes he just misses something.

***

The weeks up to Rostelecom fly by as Yuuri consistently pushes himself to work harder and longer, replacing anxiety with exhaustion and distraction where possible. There's a contrast, because with each passing day he's forced to intercept the sense memory that he's gearing up to perform, because he's not, and he's just recreating medleys of pieces he used to know. Lately, he's taken to trying out jumps he's always wanted to perfect. Knowing he doesn't have to stay completely healthy gives him the freedom to put effort into things he never used to have time for, and it's paid off. He's probably in better form now than he ever has been, but it's all for nothing, of course, and the irony doesn't escape him. But what would be the point of returning now, when Victor's just left? What does the competitive world of figure skating hold for him if it doesn't have Victor in it?

Before he really knows it, he's packing to go to Russia, a thought that makes him increasingly uncomfortable, but he's meeting Phichit at the airport because their flights are landing around the same time, and knowing he doesn't have to be completely alone for long in Moscow is certainly a comfort. Falling asleep on the plane, he wakes confused and disoriented, almost forgetting his hand luggage and then his passport. He can't help but look around nervously as he moves through the airport, scared of recognising someone or being recognised, but in the end it's only Phichit who does, throwing himself at Yuuri like they haven't seen each other in years.

It's fairly late when they arrive at the hotel, so they decide on room service and a movie in favour of going out. It suits Yuuri just fine, who's still tired from the uncomfortable nap on the plane, so he goes to take a shower while Phichit places an order for their food.

"What are you watching?" Yuuri asks as he emerges some time later, finding Phichit on his laptop.

"Interviews," he replies vaguely, and Yuuri freezes in the middle of towel drying his hair as he hears a very familiar voice coming from the tinny speakers.

"... has a lot of potential," Victor's saying, and then another voice says,

"It's a bold programme for a fifteen year old to perform. Could you tell us about what inspired you?"

"I was inspired by another skater," Victor replies, and yet again Yuuri gets a strange sense of premonition as he holds his breath for Victor's next words. "Yuuri Katsuki. I was very disappointed to hear of his retirement. His skating always stood out to me because of how he moves, like he's creating music himself. Very beautiful to watch. I wanted to emulate that."

Yuuri can't move. He wants to walk over to the laptop and slam it shut, but he can't do it, like his feet are rooted to the floor. He silently urges Victor to keep talking, to say more, but he doesn't and the questions move on.

Eventually, he manages to retreat back into the bathroom, not wanting Phichit to have to see him work through this. As soon as the door closes he sinks to the floor, shaking with quiet anger. How dare Victor drag his name back into this? Did Christophe know about the inspiration? Nobody has seen it yet, there haven't even been teasing videos on Instagram, which Victor has always liked to do for his fans. Was it a dig at Yuuri's retirement? A joke?

A painful memory resurfaces in Yuuri's mind as he thinks back on that terrible day of the Grand Prix Final, how he'd locked himself in the bathroom and cried on the phone to his mother. Yuri Plisetsky had been there, he realises, calling him an idiot for quitting. Was that it, he wonders uncertainly. Were they trying to make fun of him?

"Yuuri?" Phichit calls experimentally through the door. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Yuuri replies automatically, his anger having ebbed away, replaced by the more familiar self-doubt.

"Maybe you should try talking to him," Phichit suggests gently, seemingly having planted himself on the other side of the door. "I mean, he seems to still care about you."

"I don't think that's it," Yuuri mumbles, getting to his feet and opening the door, finding Phichit, as expected, on the floor outside. "And I don't want to talk to him." It's a half truth, because some part of him does want to know, tired of being continuously dragged into a game he doesn't know how to play.

They have dinner in silence, and the later hours in which they're supposed to sleep, so that Phichit can go to the rink for pre-show practice and Yuuri will have to occupy himself, are spent mostly rolling around seeking comfort. His head is a steamroller, intercepting every moment of peace with another intruding thought about what he'd like to say to Victor if he could find him tomorrow, or even the day after. He manages to doze off eventually, but doesn't feel like he's slept at all by the time Phichit wakes him.

They eat breakfast in the hotel restaurant, after which Yuuri goes for a walk around Moscow centre, pretending to take in the sights. It's odd to be in Victor's country, imagining him everywhere in different stages of his life. Maybe he'd been here as a teenager, Yuuri thinks as he wanders across the red square, taking in the sight of the Kremlin with its many colourful towers and turrets. Perhaps with a lover, taking stupid pictures and sharing ice cream in the summer. It'd a disconcerting thought, but Yuuri continues to have them throughout the day, finally circling back to the Ice Palace just in time for the competition, feeling mostly resigned as he takes his seat.

The spaces begin to fill in around him, and there are a few instances where somebody will be looking at their phone, and then discretely point to him with their group. Unlike last time, it seems he's going to have to do at little bit of meeting and greeting. Each time he's approached, he takes a moment to ask that they not say anything yet, because he's here to watch his friend Phichit, and he wants to enjoy the experience as a fan and spectator, and the fans are gracious enough to mostly leave him be.

The first routines pass quickly, and Yuuri becomes swept up once more in the energy of the crowd, forgetting to count rotations and try to add up scores because he's reacting to a precarious landing, or urging a swift recovery from a fall. Time passes, and Yuuri's mood drops the moment that Yuri Plistetsky takes to the ice, and Victor can be identified by his hair, wearing a brown coat with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. Even from afar, even when he isn't supposed to draw attention to himself, he is striking. Averting his eyes, Yuuri turns reluctantly to Plisetsky instead, taking in his long blond hair and small frame. He's wearing a black suit flecked with silver, _Viktor's suit_ , Yuuri thinks with a sense of bitterness. It's from his junior years, when he was about Plisetsky's size, but Plisetsky carries it completely differently – aggressive where Viktor had been graceful, and with attitude instead of allure.

The programme starts, and Yuuri sinks low in his seat. It's a mortifying experience. The music, ‘On Love – Eros’, is up-tempo and passionate, much like the choreography. It's sexy and bold, _seductive_ , Yuuri thinks, and he wouldn't have expected someone so young and inexperienced to be able to pull it off (though he has no doubt that Victor could), but Plisetsky doesn't take any prisoners as he moves explosively across the ice, landing an impossible quadruple flip right in front of Yuuri's eyes.

He feels a deep-seated jealousy then, because that's not Plisetsky's place. He only just joined the division. He had no right to that jump.

While everyone else is on their feet, applauding the youth's skills, Yuuri sinks even lower in his seat, looking across to see Victor jumping and punching the air. There's no doubt that this programme was choreographed by him; it's in the way Plisetsky moves, even if it is distorted by the person performing them. If he squints, Yuuri can almost imagine Victor rehearsing, still in that same uniform, gliding across the ice like he's barely touching it.

In the corner of his eye, he can see a few people turn their heads to look at him, no doubt wanting to see his reaction. Carefully arranging his facial expression into something more indifferent and detached, he watches the rest of Plisetsky's performance in feigned disinterest. The kiss and cry is almost worse, with Victor chatting quickly in Russian and looping an arm around Plisetsky's shoulders as the score comes up. Yuuri waits patiently for Phichit to come on, cheering loudly as he skates an enthusiastic programme, albeit lacking the focus and skill that Plisetsky had delivered. In the end, Phichit places third, an impressive feat considering the line up, and Yuuri represses his resentment for Plisetsky's lead, putting on a grin as he goes to congratulate his friend.

Thankfully, Phichit doesn't mention Plisetsky's performance, and Yuuri certainly doesn't bring it up.

***

"Do you want to come to practice?" Phichit asks over breakfast the next morning, undoubtedly expecting a negative and looking predictably shocked when Yuuri agrees. It's not that he wants to confront Victor, not really, but at this point he thinks he's definitely done hiding, and there's nothing left for Victor to hurt him with.

The arena is quite empty as they arrive, and there's only one other skater on the ice when Phichit begins his practice, but Yuuri knows it's only a matter of time before Plisetsky shows up. Leaning against the board lazily, he watches Phichit go through warm up and a few simple jumps, stopping frequently to chat to his coach. Yuuri can't hear what they're saying, but he's not terribly interested. It reminds him too much of his own practices with Celestino, and how, at this point before a competition, he'd already start messing up because of nerves.

But Phichit has never been like that. He's smiling, enjoying the buzzing nerves, and even when he messes up a jump he just goes directly to Celestino and asks for clarification on how to prevent that particular mistake again, rather than stubbornly avoiding jumps for the next few minutes out of shame. He may not be incredibly skilled, but his heart carries him well.

The Russians show up all in one group, Plistetsky leading them and Victor trailing at the back. He's wearing sunglasses, despite it being only marginally bright outside, but Plistetsky ended at the top of the board yesterday, so perhaps they went to celebrate. The sunglasses mean that Yuuri can't stare, because Victor may be staring back, and he wouldn't know. He's determined to have the upper hand as long as possible.

Yuuri keeps his eyes on Phichit, laughing with him about something nonsensical, and he doesn't once look over to the space by the rink given to coaches and camera crew. In the corner of his eye, however, he notices the moment Victor starts to approach, evidently having spotted him at last.

"Yuuri," he says in his melodic voice as he stops to lean his hip against the boards, only a few steps away from where Yuuri is standing. Plisetsky seems unbothered by the absence of his coach, perhaps used to it, and Yuuri isn't surprised by his independence. "I should have known you'd be here."

"Didn't you?" Yuuri replies evenly, finally turning to look at Victor's somewhat dishevelled appearance. "Isn't that why you said those things about me on TV? To wind me up?"

The words are bitter when they come out, but Yuuri doesn't regret them. Victor lifts his glasses from his nose, sliding them into his hair instead, and looks at Yuuri with an almost imperceptible frown on his face. When he doesn't say anything, Yuuri adds, "Don't you think I've been humiliated enough?"

"It was meant to be a compliment," Victor replies at last.

"And what does Chris think about that?"

Victor's frown deepens. "Giacometti?"

"Well," Yuuri says, "how many Chrises are you sleeping with?" It's rude and somewhat beside the point, but Yuuri doesn't care. He wants to throw it all in Victor's face, to make a dent in that infuriatingly perfect facade.

"None," Victor says then, a coldness having crept into his expression, "at the moment. And I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

Yuuri stumbles on his thoughts, any witty retort – not that he's particularly good at them – falling short before he has the chance to attempt it. Did they break up?

"Were you with him at the banquet?" he tries instead, hoping at least to catch him out in that, to shame him somehow, to make him feel even a hint of how humiliated Yuuri has been feeling this whole time.

"No, because I was with you," Victor insists, arms coming up and folding across his chest. He's always seemed so open, and the action strikes Yuuri as particularly unusual. "What are you talking about?"

"No, I mean ..." Yuuri tries again, feeling increasingly foolish for having to spell it all out. "Did you cheat on him?"

"No," Victor says as if it's obvious, and then, finally, a sudden look of hurt crosses his features, but it doesn't feel at all satisfying anymore. "Is that what you think of me?"

"No," Yuuri replies quickly. "Well, I didn't know... How was I supposed to know?"

"You could have called me," Victor says, "like I asked you to."

"I didn't think ..." Yuuri says uncertainly, thoroughly thrown by the strange turn of events. "Wasn't it terrible?"

"Wasn't what terrible?" Victor asks.

"Whatever happened after the banquet," Yuuri supplies quietly.

Victor's expression changes, again, to something akin to the confusion he began with.

"You mean, you don't remember?"

"No, I ..." Yuuri feels his face heat up, and averts his gaze. He speaks slowly, not wanting to mess up his admission when it's already so painful. "I know what happened, but I don't actually _know_."

He expects Victor to say something, to be shocked or hurt again. Rather, Victor sighs, and steps closer. In one smooth motion, his arm is almost touching Yuuri's.

"You should have told me," he says, head slightly ducked so as to keep the conversation private. Yuuri suppresses a shiver at having his voice so close to his ear.

"I was mortified," he mumbles, eyes fixed on Victor's white trainers. "I thought you wouldn't want to hear from me."

"Well, you made me think the same thing," Victor tells him, and when Yuuri chances a glance upward, he's smiling a little. "And it wasn't terrible," he adds kindly.

"I'm sorry,” Yuuri almost whispers, wanting to pull away almost as much as he wants to stay.

Victor is silent then, but stays where he is, soft fingers gracing Yuuri's neck as he's gently pulled into a sort of hug, face pressed to Victor's warm chest. "I'm sorry," he mumbles again into the fabric, unable to move his arms to return the embrace.

"Me too," Victor tells him, holding onto him a bit longer, "Yuuri ..."

***

Later, after the practice session is over and Phichit has taken him out for lunch in a crowded coffee shop somewhere near the arena, Yuuri's still shivering from the quiet words Victor had mumbled into his hair. The sweet smell of Victor's jacket lingers in his nose, triggering memories he'd thought he'd never get back, a series of unrestrained joy and elation, of skin on skin and laughter in his ears. _I meant everything I said._ It's like he's right back where he started. _I don't want to let you go._ And hope is such a treacherous thing in the end. _Don't be a stranger, Yuuri._

“Yuuri?”

“What?” He looks up to find Phichit staring at him expectantly, fork dangling from his right hand. Yuuri hasn't yet touched his food.

“Are you going to tell me what happened with Victor?”

_You've got my number._

“I've been such an idiot,” Yuuri confesses, pressing a cold palm against his forehead and closing his eyes briefly, trying to keep Victor's voice out of his head for long enough to have a single rational thought.

“Can you be a bit more specific,” Phichit prompts, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he's trying not to be amused.

_I don't want to let you go ..._

“I don't know what to do ...” Yuuri whines, feeling the newly healed stitches around his heart threatening to come undone with the slightest pull.

“Yes, you do,” Phichit says unexpectedly, lowering his fork to spear a piece of fruit on his plate. “He wants you back, am I right? He apologised.”

“He didn't even do anything wrong.”

“So it was a big misunderstanding?”

“I guess ...” Yuuri admits, still reluctant to have the truth altered so suddenly, to have the idea of Victor's infallibility fully restored in his mind.

“He's not a god,” Phichit tells him then, as if knowing exactly what's going through Yuuri's head at that moment. “And you're never going to forgive yourself if you choose to walk away now.”

Yuuri leans back in his chair, wondering how many times he'll be able to pick himself up before it's just not possible anymore, and says, in a voice that shouldn't carry but somehow does, “What if I screw it up again?”

Phichit smiles blandly at him. “What if you don't?”

***

The free skate ends much like Yuuri had predicted. Plisetsky wins gold and Phichit manages a bronze, with Otabek Altin from Kazakhstan taking silver. Yuuri watches the ceremony with undiluted pride, unbothered this time by Plisetsky's win. After, he goes to meet Phichit as usual, to praise his medal and his performance, surrounded by skaters, coaches, friends, and family members.

"Hey, Katsuki," someone says behind him, and Yuuri isn't terribly surprised to be spoken to in this crowd. When he turns, however, it's Yuri Plisetsky that's looking back at him, hood pulled up and hands shoved deep in his pockets. "You can have him," he says, his Russian bleeding through the English just like Victor's.

"Excuse me?" Yuuri says politely, trying not to look intimidated.

"Victor," Plisetsky supplies impatiently. "As your coach for next season."

Yuuri stares at him for a long, awkward moment before replying, "he hasn't asked," rather than denying all intentions of coming back.

"But he will," Plisetsky says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he's slightly uncomfortable, but determined to get the conversation over with. "When I told you to retire last year it was because you needed to get over yourself. I didn't think you'd actually do it."

"I didn't retire because of what you said," Yuuri assures him, earning an unimpressed glare from the teen.

"Whatever," he mutters, turning on his heel swiftly and stalking away through the crowd.

Yuuri turns to Phichit, who's looking at him with amused incredulity, eyebrows raised.

“Not a word,” Yuuri mutters before he can say something along the lines of “I told you so.”

The space is busy, with crowds swarming out of the exit and press spilling into the private space for interviews. Since both Plisetsky and Phichit made it to the podium, they need to at least say a few words, as do their coaches. Victor is happily talking to a well-dressed interviewer with a French accent, his posture relaxed as if they're old friends. Yuuri hangs back, studying Victor's familiar face. He allows himself to feel it, the old affection that surges so pleasantly in his chest and reminds him of flicking through sports magazines in the supermarket and staying up all night to watch the competitions live on TV with Vichan in his lap. He looks at Victor, and allows himself to believe that he's every bit as good as Yuuri always thought him to be.

As if on cue, he looks up just in time so see Yuuri watching, his eyes lingering for a moment as the whiteness of his teeth catches the light.

"You ready to go?" Phichit says in his ear then, pulling Yuuri back to earth.

"Of course," he says, something soft touching the corners of his mouth, like a smile.

"Do you want to say goodbye to him?"

Yuuri shakes his head. "He's busy," he says, but the smile lingers. "I can text him later.”

***

He does text him this time, and Victor texts him back.

It's a tentative thing, a little awkward and stilted at first, but there's still nothing better than waking up to several photos of Makkachin playing in the snow and one of Victor wrapped up in a scarf, hair tousled and eyes bleary before the day's first cup of coffee. Yuuri, in turn, sends him photos of his home town, telling him about the ninja castle and his mum's katsudon, ignoring the voice in his head that keeps insisting that Victor doesn't care about such things. And the more they talk, the more Yuuri sees himself in Victor. Not the crippling anxiety and self doubt, perhaps, but the stubbornness and the unwillingness to rely on other people for help, the solitary existence of a man determined to do it all on his own. Victor has his rink mates and his dog, but he doesn't go to parties, or travel, or do anything glamorous at all that Yuuri would have expected a five time world champion to do in his spare time. If Yuuri had to guess, he'd even say that Victor would have been lonely if Yuuri hadn't texted him at all hours of the day to chat about the latest book he's read, or to tell a story about a ridiculous guest they've had at the bath house.

And in the end, he stops caring what Victor will think of him, because what could he possibly say that's more disastrous than what he's already said and done? What could he do to paint himself as anything other than what he is?

A few weeks have passed when Yuuri opens his laptop one evening and searches Plisetsky's name, finding a video of his latest performance, the programme Victor choreographed for him. He watches it on repeat, focusing first on the music, then on Plisetsky, and then several times over as a full piece. If it's about him, he wants to see the story, to see past the technical difficulties and the small flaws to appreciate what was crafted to reflect one accidental encounter viewed through rosé-tinted glasses. Leaning back in his desk chair, he rubs a hand over his face tiredly and wonders about the impact he must have made, not necessarily good but certainly lasting, for Victor to use it like this, turning it into art for the world to see. But perhaps he's overthinking again, he reflects. Perhaps Victor didn't mean it like that at all.

When he looks back at the screen, there's a suggested video that catches his eye because of its title. He clicks it, and music fills the room, entirely different to what he's just listened to, yet exactly the same. It's a different version of the Eros theme, he realises, with words that seem to be in Latin, and instead of energetic guitars there's a soft organ, painting an entirely different picture. As he listens, he feels a new story take shape in his mind, a quieter one, yet strangely real to him as he closes his eyes and lifts his arms slowly. Yuuri doesn't dance, not unprompted, but this feels different. This feels like what his body's been trained to do since childhood. Getting to his feet, he spins languidly on the spot, keeping the music at the forefront of his mind as he moves around his bedroom, replaying the song when it ends and starting from the beginning.

That evening, he tries it out on the ice.

It's nothing polished, but it feels good to have a project again. He spends every spare moment on the ice after that when he isn't helping at Yutopia, and every other evening at the dance studio to work on the choreography. Before, it was lazy, he was skating for himself. But this is different. It's almost like preparing for a competition again, but without Celestino inadvertently making him question every decision. Like this, he can focus without fear, create without judgement, and skate without resentment for the heights he knows he'll never achieve. This is his story, and no-one can tell it better.

***

The first time he talks on the phone with Victor, he feels brave enough to ask why he quit.

"I didn't know how to surprise my audience anymore," Victor admits, after a pause. “I felt like I'd run out of reasons.”

"I think I know what you mean,” Yuuri says, a little timidly, because he can't really compare his own creative process to Victor's, but he knows what it's like to lose motivation.

“What about you?” Victor asks then. “Are you skating at all?”

“Only for exercise,” Yuuri says, feeling oddly embarrassed to admit it.

“I'd like to see you skate again,” Victor says, with that unabashed frankness he so often throws around, entirely unselfconscious.

Yuuri takes a breath, then another, before he ventures, “If I come to the Final, do you think you could give me five minutes on the ice?”

There's a bit of a pause, in which Yuuri has time to regret everything several times over before Victor says, “You're coming to Barcelona?”

“Phichit would kill me if he makes it to the Final and I'm not there to support him,” Yuuri says quickly. “And ... if you don't mind, there's something I'd like to show you.”

“Something you've been working on?” Victor asks, and Yuuri thinks he can hear surprise there, maybe even wonder.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I felt inspired.”

“Then I'll make sure to get you more than five minutes,” Victor promises, and now Yuuri's sure he can hear a smile in his voice too.

He spends every single day at the rink after that, pushing himself harder than he ever has for any competition, and he doesn't care if it's the last thing he ever does on the ice, because for the first time it feels like it actually matters. When he's out there, he doesn't doubt himself, and he doesn't hesitate anymore, because this is _him,_ this is how he tells his story, and if that isn't good enough, so be it. It's the only way he knows how to say it.

With only two weeks left before the Final, he travels with Phichit to Sapporo for the NHK Trophy, and is not even surprised when Phichit brings home the silver. It's like it was already decided that they would all go to Barcelona, like something is waiting for them there, for better or worse.

“I assume you'll be joining me then,” Phichit grins over celebratory drinks that night, and Yuuri doesn't mention that he'd already bought the ticket with the last of his savings.

“Of course,” he smiles serenely, raising his glass for a toast.

“Are you going to see him there?” Phichit asks after having taken a sip of his champagne, and Yuuri thinks about long phone calls at night and silly dog photos in the mornings. He thinks about counting down the days on his calendar and the comments on his Instagram posts and the package he received in the mail a few days ago, filled with Russian sweets and a handwritten letter signed _yours_ at the bottom. He thinks about pouring his heart out in B minor.

“I expect so,” he says.

***

Phichit books a room for them to share, and that makes it final. Yuuri’s parents don’t seem to care or know enough about skating to ask about his sudden eagerness, but Yuko leans across the boards one evening, with a curious expression on her face.

“What have you been listening to? Your choreography has been very emotional.”

Without hesitation, Yuuri removes his ear buds and hands them to her, watching her close her eyes as she concentrates on the music. He realises that she's the only one he doesn't mind sharing this with, because she's the only one who's really been there from the start. She knows him in a way that not even Phichit does, let alone his parents or his sister. Most importantly, she was there when he first fell in love.

"It sounds a bit like Yuri Plisetsky's music," she observes as she hands the ear buds back to him, and Yuuri smiles, having known that she would get it instantly. He decided to tell her then, the whole story from start, and when he finishes she's got her hand clasped over her mouth, as if holding back a yell.

"Show me again," she says breathlessly. "Pretend that I'm him."

Yuuri nods, and points towards his bag, where a burned CD of the track lies waiting to be played. If he’s doing this, they need to both hear it.

After, when he steps out of his final pose and looks across the ice, Yuko’s smile warms up the room.

“You’ve come a long way from the kid I used to sit and watch the championships with,” she tells him sincerely.

"It's different when I'm doing it for myself," Yuuri says, crossing the ice tiredly and stepping onto solid ground again. "I don't think I ever skated for myself in the past. It was always just something I had to do because I didn't have anything else, and because other people wanted me to."

"But that's because you were made for it," Yuko says while Yuuri unlaces his skates and packs them away in his bag. "What Victor said about you at that press conference isn't just his point of view, you know. Lots of people think so."

"I think I'm beginning to understand that now," Yuuri tells her with a weak smile. "At least, I think I owe it to the people I love to try to believe them."

***

When he finally touches down in Barcelona, Phichit is already at the airport to collect him.

“You made it!” he yells happily as Yuuri wanders out from baggage reclaim, running towards him in a burst of energy that Yuuri only wishes he could muster after the excruciatingly long flight he's just had. Phichit bundles him up in a forceful embrace, exclaiming, “this is going to be so much fun!” and Yuuri wants to believe him so badly, but knows it's only one of so many possibilities.

They take a cab to the hotel, and Yuuri fishes out his phone to send a quick text.

"Just landed," he writes, barely registering Phichit's excited chatter next to him.

"I can get you half an hour tomorrow evening after practice," Victor replies within minutes, and Yuuri begins typing a confirmation when Victor follows with, "Can I see you this evening?"

He pauses, looking out of the window for the first time to take in the foreign signs and architecture. This is his decision, his plan. Yuuri, for once, is still in complete control.

"Not yet,” he types. “Everything I need to say is for the ice."

They go out for dinner that night, him and Phichit, and talk about the competition in earnest. it doesn't pain him anymore, Yuuri realises, to see the passion in Phichit's eyes and knowing that he's not part of that anymore. If he never skates professionally again in his life, he thinks he could live with that, and if he never sees Victor again after tomorrow, he could probably live with that too. The world seems a bigger place now than it had just a year ago, and if nothing else, he'll know he gave it his all.

This quiet acceptance carries him through the evening and night, still nestling safely in his chest as the sun rises and Phichit takes off for morning practice. Yuuri drinks tea and spends a few hours stretching and listening to music, packing his kitbag, taking a long shower and relishing the hot water curling down his back. He takes a nap around noon and is woken by Phichit coming back and wanting to go sightseeing while there's still time.

So they set out, and Yuuri follows Phichit, who's got a map on his phone and money for hot drinks in his pocket, herding them around for hours while taking what seems like hundreds of photographs, mostly selfies, and when they finally stop to take a rest on a bench, Yuuri says, “I'm seeing Victor tonight,” because it's about time he lets Phichit know.

"For a date?" Phichit asks from behind his takeaway cup, eyes gleaming with poorly veiled interest.

“Not exactly,” Yuuri admits, blowing at his coffee before taking a careful sip. “I'll let you know.”

“Yuuri,” Phichit says in a tone that catches Yuuri's attention. “You don't seem all that happy about it.”

Yuuri pulls his scarf up a little higher around his neck, giving it some thought before he says, “I guess I just don't want to get my hopes up. It's complicated.”

“How?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri lets out a small huff of a laugh at that, because it's so typical. Phichit makes molehills out of mountains, always believing in the impossible, and can never take no for an answer.

“Because I have no idea what he wants from me,” Yuuri says, a little exasperated. “We live on different sides of the world and I'm a has-been who works for my parents with no idea what I'm supposed to do with my life. Victor's famous around the world and being with me would mean having to, you know...”

“Come out?” Phichit supplies gently, as Yuuri struggles to get the words out.

“Yeah,” he sighs quietly, shuddering a little from the cold and from the knowledge of what he's about to do. He knows he could still change his mind if he really wanted to, to settle for the quiet routine they've built of comfortable conversation and companionship, but at the end of the day... “I just don't think I can keep being just friends.”

“You were never just friends,” Phichit points out, smiling at him over the rim of his cup. “I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

Coming from Phichit, it's not the most reassuring assessment, but Yuuri's grateful nonetheless. At least, with Phichit by his side, there's always someone to pick up the pieces when he inevitably falls apart.

***

Later, he dresses in his track suit and trainers, collecting his kitbag and pulling on his thick winter coat while Phichit watches the whole process from where he's sprawled on the bed.

"I'll see you soon," Yuuri promises as he stops in the doorway, and Phichit gives him a thumbs up, smiling like he wants to contradict him but chooses not to.

Yuuri walks the short distance to the arena with his heart thumping but keeping his thoughts carefully reigned in, willing his mind to remain a pleasant blank for as long as he's able to. There seems to be no one around as he approaches the well-lit building, but as he gets closer he can see a figure standing by a side door, tall and straight backed, recognizable anywhere, at least to Yuuri.

"Hi," he says awkwardly as he comes to a halt.

"You made it," Victor smiles in imitation of Phichit's words yesterday, as if neither of them had expected him to.

"Of course," Yuuri says weakly, venturing a nervous smile in return as he meets Victor's eyes properly, quietly happy just to be near him again, to have the privilege.

Victor waits a moment longer, looking at Yuuri as if he wants to say more, but instead turns to open the door, leading them past uninterested security and down the corridor to the rink.

The displaced energy is finally hitting, his ordered thoughts beginning to quietly run away from him as expected, and despite the lack of crowd and charged atmosphere, Yuuri feels nerves gather at the base of his spine as he looks out across the ice.

"So what have you got for me?" Victor asks cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to Yuuri's awe.

Rather than answering, he hands over the CD, and sits on a bench to lace up his skates. It feels good to keep Victor guessing like this, to have him so close but still be completely in control of how the conversation is progressing. He wants to savour it, to sit and take Victor in, in all his handsomely dishevelled glory after a day of coaching, but they're on a timer, and there'll be time for talk later.

He feels calmer once he's on the ice and warmed up, calm enough to turn to Victor, whose full attention is like staring straight into a cold winter sun, and say, "I wanted to say sorry, for making you feel like I'd cast you aside."

Victor smiles a little ruefully. "Was it that obvious?” he asks, which isn't at all what Yuuri had expected.

"I watched your programme, a lot," he admits. “I didn't want to assume but …”

“But you were right,” Victor finishes the sentence for him, still smiling softly, which Yuuri takes as his cue to keep going.

"I've always loved the way you tell stories,” he confesses, “when you skate. I didn't understand how you did it, but maybe I didn't have anything important enough to say … before." He takes a deep breath then, gathering himself, and adds, "I want you to watch me, Victor. Don't take your eyes off me."

He doesn't let himself gauge Victor's reaction before turning on the spot and moving towards the centre of the rink. From here, he can't make out his expression without his glasses, and as he gets into position, a stillness settles in the spaces around him, a hush quieting the incessant beating of his heart.

The first few notes come whispering from the speakers, and Yuuri begins by reliving the very first moment that Victor came into his life, the steady ascent from fascination into obsession, and within – his true passion for skating awakening. The first few bars of music push him through the memories of bringing home Vicchan for the first time, stumbling through Victor's routines with Yuko and feeling a rush of exhilaration at imagining Victor taking the same steps in his own rink, somewhere far off where greatness knows no bounds. His and Victor's stories have been so tightly woven for years, but Victor doesn't know this yet. Yuuri has to show him.

The first jump is like the first realisation of love, a triple axle that lifts him higher than mere admiration ever could, and he lands it on a steady ankle, like a settling acceptance that this is him, this is _who_ he is. After that, it's a whirlwind, bringing back not just the intensity of his passion, but of his gratitude too, for having Victor in his life, for finding the inspiration that had enabled him to go from amateur to professional, from junior to senior, and finally putting him among the top skaters of the world with the single dream of just once sharing the ice with the most talented man he knows.

It's not about the jumps or his technical skill so he doesn't attempt a quad, but he throws himself in the air with abandon for his combination, barely registering the landings before moving on to the next segment and his last jump, another silent salute in the form of a successful triple flip. He's nearing the end now, the bit he thinks of as their meeting, the crescendo that had ended so disastrously, yet hadn't managed to take out the bottom of his devotion. Anger seeps into his movements, regret spilling from his fingertips as he thinks about all the misunderstandings, the wasted time, the words he should have spoken when he had the chance. Then the revelation of his mistake, the acceptance. _Agape_ – he thinks, moving into his last combination spin and finding, at the bottom of his heart, only forgiveness and a quiet, unrelenting spark of hope where the pain had been – _unconditional love._ It's too late to take any of it back now.

He stares at the ceiling, keeping his position for a beat longer as he steels himself to face the reaction. Though, from so far away, with his eyesight being what it is, Yuuri can't tell much when he finally turns his head. Victor is a vague shape at the boards, unmoving, so he glides back across the ice until he can make out the residue of shock on Victor's face, something like awe painted in his breath-taking features.

"Did you choreograph that yourself?" Victor asks softly, his voice only just carrying across the ice. Yuuri nods, feeling his knees start to shake slightly as he clutches his sides, breathing deeply.

"And it was … ? " he trails off, but Yuuri can guess at the meaning behind the vague question.

"For you," he confesses breathlessly, forcing himself upright so he can look Victor in the eyes. "I still skate because of you. I can't let it go because … I can't let _you_ go."

_I don't want to let you go ..._

“Yuuri …” Victor breathes, his hands clasped in front of his chest, like he's trying to keep something from spilling out, and then, perhaps in spite of himself he says, “Please let me coach you.”

Yuuri lets the words wash over him, struggling to fully take them in as his body and mind catches up with the emotional toll of the situation.

"You really mean that?" he asks.

"You should have been on that podium with me," Victor says insistently, leaning forward slightly across the barrier separating them. "You deserve a second chance. I can help you.”

"What about Plisetsky?"

“I'll train you both,” Victor promises, and his eyes look alight with it, a fire there that Yuuri knows only too well.

"Victor," he says carefully, a little dizzy now, and a little wary that Victor still doesn't entirely get it, "if we're doing this …" He pauses, takes a deep breath. "I don't want us to just be friends. I want all of you."

He thinks, _there_ , I've done it now, and watches Victor tilt his head slightly, humming, before letting out a soft chuckle. “I know,” he says, and Yuuri's heart is in his throat. “But I'm already yours.”

He's moving before his thoughts have fully caught up with what is happening, and he registers vaguely the dull thump of his skates hitting the boards as he surges forward, catching Victor's elbow, his neck, fingers sliding into silky hair as their breaths cloud together in the shallow space between their lips. It's a desperate thing, not at all like their quiet stumble into a tentative friendship over text and the gnawing uncertainty that followed. It feels like more than a culmination of their slow build of intimacy, more than the mere sum of their mistakes. Yuuri pushes himself into Victor's space and thinks, this is what it must have been like, and, I think I know now why it all happened the way it did.

Because Victor kisses him like he's done it a million times before, his gentle hands cupping Yuuri's face and holding him there, letting him know that he fits into the folds of Victor's coat, the spaces where his body curls to accommodate a second pair of lungs, another restless heart, and Yuuri thinks he remembers this too, like an image fluttering just behind his eyelids when he closes them.

When it ends, Yuuri thinks that they must be running out of time, and a panic seizes him as Victor's fingers leave his skin, his warmth fading with the sudden distance between them.

"Will you come back to the hotel with me?" Victor mumbles then, his lips still glistening in the artificial light, eyes hooded under silver blond lashes.

"Are you sure?" Yuuri asks, because he wants so badly to be convinced.

Victor laughs. "Yes, of course I'm sure," he says, and smiles like he means it.

He takes Yuuri's hand as they step out into the freezing cold. They don't speak as they walk, cheeks flushed with quiet impatience, but Yuuri doesn't feel the need to struggle with words when the gracefulness of their reunion seems to stretch on so effortlessly despite the silence, and despite the clammy press of Victor's fingers in his, squeezing every so often as they hurry across the cobblestone.

Later, when they're finally behind closed doors and Victor suddenly tries to speak, Yuuri shushes him with a confidence that burns hot on his skin, flaring up in unexpected bursts, and he stands on his toes for a kiss meant to drown out all the loud noises of the world until only the catch in Victor's breath remains, the rustling of his coat as Yuuri drops it to the floor. Victor guides him to the bed, letting him sit back as he starts to undress without any forced flare, and Yuuri doesn't think he's ever seen him so careless or unpoised. He's not putting on a show, Yuuri thinks – as he trails a hand softly over Victor's bare abdomen, nails catching at the soft hairs there, marvelling – because it's just them. Victor's not trying to impress him.

And maybe it's that more than anything that has Yuuri abandoning all sense of timidness as he lets Victor undress him in turn, removing his glasses first and folding them, unzipping his jacket and unlacing his shoes in a way that makes Yuuri think of birthday gifts and childish wonder, something innocent in the way he ducks his head to let Yuuri rake his fingers through his hair.

“I've missed this,” Victor mumbles against his stomach, sighing into the fabric of his shirt where Yuuri can feel the warmth of his breath gathering, sending shivers down the length of his thighs.

“You have?” he asks when Victor shifts to gaze up at him, and for the first time wishes that he could get those memories back, no matter how painful, because there must have been something sweet there to bring them right back to this moment, something redeeming to make Victor so reverent as he strips Yuuri of his slightly damp t-shirt.

“Mm,” Victor hums absently, leaning back to slide Yuuri's track bottoms over his hips. “You made me feel inspired again,” he says, quirking a smile that sends more shivers across Yuuri's exposed skin. “I thought that if I could bring something so honest out in you, surely I could do it to others.”

“You mean coaching?”

“Yes,” Victor laughs. “But you turned me down before I could make up my mind about it.”

“I'm sorry,” Yuuri murmurs, and Victor crouches to cover him with his body, brushing a few strands of hairs from his face.

“Don't be,” Victor tells him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his mouth, rolling his hips just hard enough to draw a surprised gasp from Yuuri's swollen lips. “Look at us now.”

***

Afterwards, Yuuri will only have a vague recollection of how the Grand Prix Final went, but he doesn't feel like it's a terrible loss. What he does remember is waking up to Victor's naked body, warm and heavy in sleep, and reaching out to touch the smooth expanse of his back just to make sure; running back to his hotel in the early hours of the morning with a yell stuck in his throat and shivering triumph in every step; spending the day backstage with Phichit in whispered conversations and breathless laughter and paying more attention to Victor in the sidelines than the skaters on the ice.

He'll remember how odd it was that everyone seemed to end up in the same place for dinner that evening, reminiscing about last year's banquet and showing Yuuri photos that he wished he could erase from his mind for all eternity until Victor leans across the corner of the table, suddenly, and kisses him on the mouth for everyone to see. He'll remember catching Chris winking at him after, and realising that it wasn't shame painting his cheeks a vivid pink; it was pride.

And after the free skate is over, and Plisetsky gets his gold, Yuuri will remember a shouted, “Looking forward to some competition next year,” and “see you in Russia, little piggy,” with Victor grinning like he couldn't believe his luck.

Yuuri's glad he's not attending the banquet this years, because he has no desire to drink and forget and blot his failures from his mind. He thinks, not when they've lead me here, as he collects his things and his memories and gets on a plane back to Japan, maybe for the last time in a very long time. Not when he needs them for the stories he has yet to tell.

Not when there's so much to look forward to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> http://evelynegrey.tumblr.com/
> 
> http://queergodzilla.tumblr.com/ - better found on twitter @OccamsRockstar


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